


Cut it out and then restart

by Anuna



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Framework AU, Grief, Longing, Multi Chapter, Smut, and they're banging in that same hotel, at least i planned several chapters and you might have to beat me with a stick to write them, because they're at that same bar, ish, regrets collect like old friends, throwback to 'the well', you know which one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 05:37:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10210739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna
Summary: It's not her powers, because she simply doesn't have them here; it's the fact that she still viscerally reacts to the smallest hint of his presence. But at the same time, as he approaches Daisy feels paradoxical, overwhelming relief. She's not alone.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Orlissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orlissa/gifts).



> I keep talking to stargazerdaisy and airaze-blog about how much I want a role reversal in Framework AU - daisy to be detached, on guard with her feelings, and Grant open and soft, offering her his shoulder. This was based on speculation between aforementioned friends and also orlissa - to whom this fic is dedicated to; who has the best observation skills when it comes to this show and would singlehandedly outwrite all of those bs writers. 
> 
> Thank you, ladies and gentleman. 
> 
> Enjoy! 
> 
> (shhh, feedback feeds my soul, so please, leave some)
> 
> ps, the title comes from Florence and the machine "Shake it out". Perfect song for Skye.

When in a public place, act in a way that will draw least attention.

 

It's one of the ground laws of spy life. It means wear nondescript clothes, not too much makeup; move in a way that will make people forget you as soon as you slip past their eyes. Daisy has it etched in her bones by now and as she takes a seat behind the bar, she chooses not to think about who taught her this rule.

 

She's in Dublin, and Dublin is full of tourists. That's why she orders a beer, which is what most tourists do, despite wanting something stiff and strong to essentially knock her over.

 

Only after she takes the first sip and forces her shoulders to relax, does she notice _where_ she is. It's the bar. That bar. _My shoulder's free._

 

Karma must be a fucking bitch. That makes sense, though. Daisy knows she was a bitch too.

 

She literally senses him when he enters the bar. It's not her powers, because she simply doesn't have them here; it's the fact that she still viscerally reacts to the smallest hint of his presence. But at the same time, as he approaches Daisy feels paradoxical, overwhelming _relief_. She's not alone. She doesn't have to be the only one on alert and monitor all three exits out of this place.

He's walking much in the same way her Ward used to walk – swift, precise motions designed not to waste time or effort. Everything about this Ward is still economic. Except. When he sits next to her, to her right, she can see all of him transforming and softening. All for her, and only for her. And that realization tickles her mind and warms her gut and she wants to ignore those sensations so badly, but she's so tired and the fight is slowly going out of her. Daisy Johnson cannot go on like this any more.

 

He places his hand softly on top of hers, a perfect mirror of her action so long ago. It occurs to her that she is the stiff one, the one who wants to pull back and that the reasons are the same.

 

“All is clear,” he says, and even if she shouldn't, she trusts him.

 

“Of course,” she says and fails to smile.

 

“How are you?” he asks.

 

“I... don't know,” she says, and that's the truth. Her mind is still spinning. She needs to focus. She needs to clear her head because this _can't be it_. She needs to _find_ Jemma. This simply cannot be true.

 

“You know things are often not as they seem at the first sight,” he says. She notes how carefully he's choosing his words, even though what Jemma's former assistant described is exactly what she read in the unredacted file she managed to dig out – three people entered the underground structure, after which the structure started shaking. Daisy knows what happened inside after Jemma's team, most probably, was exposed to a Diviner.

 

“Yes. Which is why we need to see the... location,” she tells him. She can tell by his face that he has an entire counterargument ready, because he doesn't want to let her expose herself to something so dangerous. “Bets are off, Grant. If that... device,” she pauses, realizing she doesn't know exactly what Diviner is. “If that device does what we think it does -”

 

He nods grimly. People who were trying to kill them earlier that day weren't amateurs. By all accounts the fought like SHIELD agents. Except this is not SHIELD, because SHIELD willingly became... something else.

 

She's not going to think about that either.

 

He orders a drink, the same as she did. She wonders if it's simply a thing couples do, and ponders over a fact that this is, probably, the closest she got to the idea of normal couple life. What's left of her heart painfully twists inside her chest. She feels like a traitor, even though she knows Lincoln wouldn't say a word. This has to be done. So much depends on this.

 

Except. Ward squeezes her hand and she is almost ready to crumble.

 

“We could talk... if you want,” he says. She looks at him, unable to mask whatever her expression is. He is the open and emotionally welcoming one this time around, and yet it doesn't feel like conversations of this kind are his forte in this universe either. (Well. That's one of the things that doesn't feel upside down.)

 

“I... it's hard,” she says, shaking her head.

 

“You knew her,” he states carefully.

 

“Yes,” Daisy nods and almost breaks over next few words. “She... was... my friend.”

 

“I'm sorry, Skye,” he says, and doesn't ask any further even though there's a file with the name “Jemma Simmons” in his bag and it's the title of their mission. In this world Grant Ward puts Skye first, and Daisy can't help to think that too is a constant. He always did that, always, except once. That one time was when everything was ruined. All those other times when he did put her first were forgotten.

 

He's holding her hand, gently massaging her fingers with intimate familiarity that makes her chest ache. When she first woke in this place and realized she had to essentially pretend to be with him, entirety of her mind was screaming and rebelling. But the longer it goes on, the more her mind is giving in to the feeling deep in the pit of her – she wants to crumble into the safety of his touch and stay there because she just can't do this any more.

 

It's not real, she tells herself, but that doesn't lessen the feeling of safety she's so desperate for. The way his touch feels is exactly the same Ward's fingers felt when he first wrapped her hands before unleashing her at the boxing bag all those years ago. (Years. _Years_ , she thinks.) He feels the exact same way he felt every time he pulled her next to him in any kind of danger. The _same way_ he felt the first time he kissed her back.

 

She's aching. _All of her._ Aching with longing _for him,_ and that _terrifies_ her.

 

“I'll go grab a shower,” he says, slipping her a spare key. “You can go first if you'd like?”

 

She shakes her head, thinking how undressing in such near vicinity of him when she's feeling like this is a terrible idea.

 

“I just want to sleep,” she says. “I'm beat.”

 

 

*

 

She wanted him to be Lincoln.

 

Part of her still insists it was _supposed_ to be him. This place was supposed to be the way to cut out the parts of reality that you regret the most. Wipe them away and replace them with your hearts desire, but of course. Of course, even this world has to be cruel to her. Hoping for something and losing it, she thinks. And she thinks how those words, that seem to mark her life entire, are words she said to her Ward.

 

Her SO. _Her Grant_. That guy she believed in so much.

 

Her life is such a clusterfuck.

 

And then she thinks, maybe it's better he's not Lincoln. How would she unplug herself, if he were? So it's better this way, she thinks, curling in a tight ball on the bed.

 

Ward's side of bed is empty. She can hear him move inside the bathroom.

 

She tries to put her thoughts into some semblance of order. In this world she is still Skye. She never met her parents, she didn't gain her powers, she never met Lincoln and never set her foot in the Afterlife. She never met Coulson, and she never did so many things, but most of all, she was never betrayed. (She has seen the pictures. It's a parallel reality where she has a happy life, looks good and healthy. Where she is loved.)

 

But it's not real.

 

She's _not_ happy.

 

She's not _loved_.

 

And maybe, maybe Jemma isn't dead.

 

She's shaking. She's cold. She's trying to put some reason into all that she knows, but it's not working out.

 

This was her idea, her decision, she pushed it, and now maybe Jemma is dead because of her and she can't think of a single step to uncover the truth.

Everything is literally falling apart around her.

 

And then she hear the shower start and something inside of her shifts.

 

She isn't happy, she isn't anything she's pretending to be right now, but maybe for a little bit she can forget. Her mind refuses the idea even when her body sits up. Her heart starts pounding when an image of Grant, naked under the shower stream appears in her mind's eye. She shouldn't even think about it, she shouldn't be imagining him, naked or otherwise, because it's wrong, because there are so many good, solid reasons against it. But this is what makes her heart start pounding, like it just restarted itself, and her body reacts in a way she cannot ignore, let alone fight against. Along with the warmth flooding her limbs she's becoming aware of the unmistakable, very specific tight-wet-needy sensation between her legs.

 

Oh God. She's going to hell.

 

(She's going to hell anyway.)

Daisy is a person who does things. She's fearless. To the point of being reckless sometimes. But that's what gets things done. And Daisy is done fighting against herself, because she's reached the _end_. She _can't_. Can't do this any more. She has spent all her strength resisting and there is none left and that's why she's shedding clothes all over the thick carpet of this hotel room. When she reaches the bathroom door, she's completely naked.

 

Nothing but her. No masks, no strength, no excuses about the too tight state of her skin. She takes one breath and opens the bathroom door.

 

The glass of the shower stall is tinted and she can see the outline of Grant's body, his had bowed as he's washing his hair. Her throat is tight and she hesitates, feeling that she's intruding on his privacy. Except. His privacy is also her own, because it's shared. She has to tell this to herself, remind herself that this man has the experience of a life shared with her. Nearing the shower, she realizes it's something she cannot pretend.

 

“Skye?” he says. She knows how good his senses are. It's pointless to turn around now.

 

Besides, he has seen her naked already, she thinks. (She looks down her body and realizes she hasn't shaved her legs and that she's sweaty and tired and completely unappealing – and when he pulls the shower door open, she realizes it doesn't matter to him at all).

 

“I, um,” she pauses, her throat tight and dry. (The thing is, he might have seen her without any clothes on, but the other way around never happened.

 

She's _staring._

 

It's embarrassing, the way she's staring at him. He looks a lot like he looked all those years ago, somewhat stronger in the chest – which she _has_ seen – and it's as glorious as the rest of him. Her body is tense and hot with anticipation and she might self-combust on the spot.)

 

“Changed your mind?” he says amiably, and for a moment she thinks he's going to get out and give her the shower all for herself, and for some reason she cannot handle that thought at all. Any hesitation that might have been left is gone as she steps in, next to him.

 

She tries to smile. It's suddenly so warm inside.

 

She's inside a tiny shower. With Ward. And they're both naked.

 

“I -,” she tries, but she's lost all the ability to speak. Ages ago, in some other life, she used to daydream about how he would look with nothing on. And now she knows.

 

“Yeah?” he asks, stepping close and framing her face with his hands. She's looking at him, eyes fixed on his face, because it's paradoxically the safest spot to keep her eyes on. Her ability to speak is leaving her as he starts to remove wet strands of hair away from her face. Daisy is looking for some verbal way out of this spot where she stuck herself in, but there is none. It's ridiculous how he still affects her, this man she taught herself to hate so hard, and so in vain. He's doing something to her hair, gentle circular motions against her scalp, and she feels like she's melting right into his hands. And all the while he's looking at her with that look she knows, that longing and soft admiration nobody else quite had for her.

 

“I know,” he says, and he sounds so assuring she's somehow slipping forward, as if she's pulled by some inevitability. His chest is strong, warm. She reminds herself that she can touch him. It's okay. Just this once. She's allowed to forget for a little while, that rest of her life exists and is inevitably waiting for her to rip her apart yet again. It's so nice to feel his heartbeat against her face as the water slides down both of them.

 

She doesn't move. She can't, much, and she realizes it's not even necessary as he starts rubbing soap into her skin, and soon he's washed her back and shoulders. Daisy is melting, giving in to this quiet, gentle treatment, until his hands are on top of her shoulders and he slowly pries her away from himself.

 

That way she has to face him again.

 

He continues washing her. It's becoming progressively harder to keep her eyes open or keep herself focused in any way. He touches her breasts with familiarity of someone who has done it thousands times before, someone who knows what she likes and soon enough she's gasping as quietly as she can.

 

He kisses her forehead and she thinks she will burn up. She makes herself open her eyes and look at him – his eyes filled with equal parts of desire and concern. She can work with that, she can work with his lust for her and regain at least some semblance of control in this. She always had an upper hand there and she makes herself rise on her toes and kiss him on the mouth, and the thing is, he's ready for this. She's the one who isn't.

 

Her open mouthed assault gives into his soft intensity, the way he's kissing her with knowledge of her needs, of all of her little tells. He tastes the same, which simply shouldn't be possible, but he tastes the same way she remembers, and it throws her back at the time when she wanted this, when she dreamed about it, when she believed in him. She's not ready for that, she's not ready for how his mouth feels sliding down her neck, capturing her breasts, biting the inside of her thighs. When he kneels in front of her and lifts her left leg over his shoulder she's staring, feeling surreal and out of her body. And then he puts his mouth on her.

 

She crashes back into her skin. A sound that leaves her mouth doesn't sound like her at all. She's trying to hold onto something and all she finds is Grant's hair, which feels like she brings him even closer to her. His mouth works her relentlessly, and the heat spreads from their point of contact and through her, seemingly burning away everything else. She is crazy. She has gone completely insane . Too much pain will do that to you. Now? Now _nothing hurts_ as she rides his hand and feels how he sucks her flesh and follows all of the tiny little signals of her body until the world explodes behind her eyelids and vanishes into nothingness.

 

There is no daisy and no Skye and no Hydra and no betrayal and nothing... nothing.

 

She opens her eyes and watches him as he stands up, his dick hard and ready.

 

Oh, God.

 

Ward just _fucked_ her. In the shower. With his _mouth_. And he's about to fuck her again, and she's going to _beg for it_.

 

This time his kiss is dirty and slow and deep, and everything she tried to do when she started this. He pushes her against the shower stall and she's so wet and aching still, and completely ready to be taken right here. He has other ideas, though.

 

He turns off the water and pulls her out of the shower. Daisy is shivery, unsteady on her feet, completely pliant in his hands when he pats her dry with a towel. They keep kissing through it all, while he tries to dry himself and does his best to dry her hair and she's aware that she's initiating those kisses, pulling him back to her because when he kisses her nothing else exists. The world outside, it doesn't exist.

 

She guides him to the bed, walking backwards and crawling onto bed and then he's crawling on top of her.

 

The fuck is slow and intense. This body she is borrowing is used to him, just as he is used to her, and she's reminded again how much she is not in control here as she holds onto his shoulders and he moves slowly, in and out of her. (It's how she imagined. Exactly how she imagined. He's attentive and gentle and focused and he notices everything, hears every little gasp and works on whatever brought it out of her mouth). She loops her arms under his, holds onto his shoulders and buries her face into his neck. The familiar scent suffocates all her senses and paralyzes every fear that might be left. He's moving faster now, going harder and with every movement she's groaning and asking him to fuck her. He pauses suddenly, his dick completely inside of her, holds her face, tilts it to kiss her. She can feel his hips move, rock slowly until she's almost breathless. He's propped up on one hand and touching her between her legs with the other. She looks down her flushed body, tries to rise on her elbows until she can see between her own legs, where his body is entering hers and his hand is working her and something about that sight makes her brain short circuit.

 

“Oh, God,” she says just before another orgasm crashes through her.

 

He fucks her through it, waits until she's done shaking and leans over her to gently kiss her into a content, boneless state. Then he pulls out and she realizes he didn't come yet.

 

“Let me?” he asks, and she's not sure what he's asking but she's nodding. He flips her gently over and pulls her onto her knees. Her face is against the pillow that already smells of sex when he slides back into her from behind.

 

Her eyes roll back.

 

He continues to fuck her, and it feels better than it should, it feels so good that she's almost ready to come again when she feels him grip her hard and groan. Moments later he collapses next to her and pulls her close, wraps himself around her in such a loving way that it almost makes her cry.

 

She does cry. The tears leak out of her eyes as she's trying to come down from the high he caused. It feels like everything she packed inside her chest, packed it tight, forced it shut, made herself forget – all of it was cut open as if with a knife. All the pain, disappointment, hurt, regret, longing; all that couldn't become hate and all that could have been love. All of it, and grief and fear, all of it is bleeding out of her and she's so weak she can't even cry aloud.

 

“Shhh, Skye,” he says. “I's going to be good,” he says. “I've got you.”

 


End file.
